GeneforgeMartin 12

Chapter 5- Sucia Island

For the second night in a row, a terrible nightmare detailing Andras' death plagued Lanira's sleep. She saw him thrown from the ship by an explosion, and his body drifted beneath the water's surface. He struggled to reach the surface as the depths pulled him further down. Soon his body relaxed as he accepted the inevitable breath of water, then he jerked violently; the body's last protest before accepting its grim fate. Soon the twitches and jerks stilled as well, his eyes remained open, but they saw nothing. His lifeless form drifted in the endless depths.

She woke up screaming his name.

"Andras is in danger," she told Kristoff after the second night. She knew the dream held truth. She had witnessed Margus' death days before it came to be. She felt sick up until the moment a Council official came to announce the grim news. The same sick feeling came over her as she watched Andras sail away on the sea-Drayk, but he had taken his stand and declared he would leave on that ship and nothing she could do would stop him. She let him go.

Her husband ignored her tearful pleas to send a search for him. It took weeks to sail the route to Tayedikal, and by the time he could dispatch the ship they would be safely in port. She pressed further, but he would hear none of it.

"You're being foolish," he told her. "Your dreams are manifesting your fears."

"I saw Margus before he died," she insisted, resting her hands on his shoulder to emphasize her desperation. "I saw the Battle Alpha…"

He struck her down, silencing her. "Don't you ever speak of that again!"

She stared up into his angry face, allowing a single tear to fall down her face. It stung as it passed over the new mark on her cheek. "He's your son," she whispered.

"My son is dead!" He stormed out, slamming a door behind him as he retreated to his study. She could hear the sounds of books and other items being thrown to the floor on the other side. Each new crash caused her to startle. "He's dead," he shouted again and again until his voice weakened and the sounds of sobs emitted through the door.

She rose to her feet and made her way towards the bedroom where she hoped to find enough peace to gather her thoughts alone. Kristoff wasn't ready to accept Margus' death, he certainly lacked the facilities to handle ill news of Andras. She was driven by the need to retain what she had left. A mother mourned every child lost, but fought even harder to keep those that still lived. She would fight to keep Andras.

In a small wooden chest she hid under the bed she kept remnants from her old home. She knelt down next to the bed and withdrew the chest, removing from it a candle made of honeycomb and small statuette representing the goddess Aramis. Kristoff had no use for deities, but she had kept the gods her people worshipped close to her heart. Her hands hook, tears became more abundant on her face. "Not Andras," she repeated as she set up her small altar. Now she hoped the goddess remembered her loyalty all these years and would repay her with a small miracle. She lit the candle and said her prayer to Aramis. "Please," she begged through her tears. "Please let Andras be alive. Please keep him safe. I'm not ready to lose my last son. Please…

"Bring him home!"

* * * * *

When Andras' eyes opened he saw a cloudy sky above him, and the sounds of the ocean filled his ears. He was cold, his soaking wet clothes clung to his skin and leached the heat from his body. His limbs felt dull and heavy and when he tried to move he started to gag. He spit out a mouthful of water and rolled over, gagging and coughing even more. He coughed so hard that he almost vomited more than once and he couldn't get much of a break in between to inhale once again. His chest hurt like he had been kicked by a horse and his hand clutched at it as he coughed, unable to ease the pain he felt with each hacking breath. It took a short while to subside, but at last he was able to breathe uninterrupted. The need to cough still clung to the back of his throat, and he answered it on occasion, wincing in discomfort each time.

Still on his knees he looked around, finding himself washed up on a beach that was littered in both directions with wreckage. In the distance he could see billows of smoke from the assailing ship as it burned down to its own watery grave. He felt no pity for them. They got what they deserved, and it was his only small consolation for what the meeting had cost him.

Were there others?

He looked for them, but nowhere could he find evidence of anyone else that survived. Struggling to his feet he began to stumble down the beach, looking for a hopeful sign anywhere. He found the body of a youngling drayk, speared through the neck with a piece of debris. It lie dead close to where he woke up. Maybe that was what brought him here. Wherever "here" was.

Then another horrifying thought occurred to him. Maybe that was the drayk that the other three tried to escape on. Carnelian, Zalex and Luke… none were accounted for. He felt sick all over again.

"I should be dead," he told himself in a voice rough with disuse, and he thought it a few times after that. He should have drowned, in fact he did drown if he recalled correctly. His mind played back the foggy memory of his meeting with his brother, and how Margus had touched him and the curious words he said, "It's time to wake up now." What did that mean?

Thoughts for another time. He shook them off best he could as he struggled on unsteady feet to search through the wreckage. He needed to find something, something that showed the others survived or… he hated to think… something to show they had not. One cloak-covered lump caused his heart to speed up, as he approached he feared he would find the evidence he hoped didn't exist. He removed the soggy material, turning his face at first, then gathered the courage to look. He sighed in relief. A servile. Most of its body remained intact, though part of an arm and both legs were missing. He didn't remain long to examine it. His stomach couldn't take it.

He continued his search, the pain in his shoulder elevated from a dull throb to a sharp stabbing pain. He couldn't move that arm very well, making the task of sifting through wreckage a bit more difficult. When he did move it, he was sorry, the pain neared unbearable.

Further down the beach the wooden debris had lessened, and still he had found nothing to confirm his hopes or fears. He had found nothing to help himself, either. He knew he ended up on the very island they tried to avoid, Sucia. Barred for a good reason, he assumed, but here he was. The Shaper Council would have fits if they knew he stood here now. He hoped they would forgive the circumstances.

He most certainly had not chosen to come here.

Or did he? When he took the youngling drayk close to the forbidden island, had he invited the bestial men upon his peers? The question brought with it a dark sense of guilt that he couldn't shake. He hadn't done all this, never asked for it, but yet he felt somehow it was because of him. And if Carnelian had died because of it, that was his fault, too. He shuddered.

"Foolish," he said aloud, chastising himself for actions he could describe no other way. Foolish. He had been a fool to think no harm came of looking. The Council barred islands or settlements for good reason, and in defying their ruling he brought upon them all ill fortune.

Several had been lost to the sea, he assumed they drowned by now. Maybe not, but he couldn't go out to look for or rescue them. If they still clung to life now, it wouldn't be long before cold, thirst, or the ocean claimed them. Unless they could swim to shore.

He doubted that. Shapers didn't swim.

Further down the beach he saw organic clumps scattered over the sand. He hurried his pace, knowing it wouldn't hold favorable news but he had to know. The pieces were meaty chunks with scales. Another drayk… another youngling. He found the body with the head attached by the virtue of a couple tendons and nothing more. Not what he hoped to find, but nothing shy of what he expected.

A sinking feeling took over his gut. The more he looked around, seeing the youngling drayk's body in so many pieces, he knew there could only be one conclusion. He didn't want to think about that, not unless he found something he couldn't deny.

Out in the water he spied something. Not far from the sandy beach, clinging to one of the many rocks littering the shore, he saw blue. His stomach tightened even more, and his breaths became shallow and irregular. He didn't want it to be what he already knew it was… a cloak. A cloak worn by a student from Delbin, just like the one Carnelian had worn.

And Zalex, he reminded himself in order to give himself a small glimpse of hope.

He dashed in the water after it, trudging through the frothy water until it was waist deep on him. The lazy waves rocked him, but weren't strong enough to rob his footing. He reached out his good hand and entwined his fingers in the material. With a tug he pulled it towards him and examined it. It was a cloak, just as he expected, but he saw no body nearby. A cloak didn't prove anything alone, but with the drayk's body scattered over the beach, it offered a grim conclusion.

It could be Zalex.

He headed back to the beach, clutching the cloak close. Once out of the water, he untangled the garment and held it up. Height didn't say much except that it didn't belong to Caen and that much he could already deduce. He searched through the folds for something else, not expecting to find anything. A glint of silver peaked through, a chain. He held his breath as he retrieved the necklace. It had been caught on a loose thread in the stitching, but he pulled it loose without effort and let the cloak drop to the ground. The silver amulet bore the ancient Shaper rune representing loyalty.

The cloak was Carnelian's.

The realization whose cloak and necklace he had found stole the strength out of his legs. He collapsed to his knees, still staring at the amulet. He couldn't pry his eyes away, and he couldn't accept what it meant. The guilt that found him before resurfaced, bringing with it the responsibility of Carnelian's death to weight heavy on his conscience.

His stomach had enough. The overwhelming sick feeling, the ache of guilt, it all hammered down on him in a single instance. He vomited.

Something rustled through the bushes in the tree line not far from where he knelt. He ignored the sound, convinced nothing mattered now. Then something hit him. A weak ball of fire pelted against his injured shoulder, sizzling as it evaporated away the salt water that saturated the clothes he wore. Without adequate dry fuel the fire died seconds after it hit him. It still hurt, the burning pain made him grimace. He turned towards the attack, finding a small red reptile just a few yards away. It danced around on ancy feet, and yelped when it made eye contact. A fyora. Another ball of fire left the creature's mouth and headed for him. He jerked back just in time and it sailed passed him, heating his face enough to know how close it had been. Too close.

He struggled to his feet, and the creature hissed in warning. As far as fyoras went, this one was small, standing perhaps 3 feet in height. Yellow eyes followed every movement he made, and the long snout would send another fireball after him if he stood still for any length of time. He jumped out of the way, feeling the heat pass by each time.

"Enough!" he shouted at it, expecting to see a hint of Shaper obedience that should have been bred into it. Nothing. It continued attacking him, hissing at him as he dared come closer. He snatched up the soggy cloak he rescued from the waters and held it up. A sidestep would dodge more fire, and soon he managed to get close enough. He tossed the cloak over the creature, then dove for it. The beast screamed.

A short struggle, then it was over. He sliced the throat with the dagger he kept at his belt, the one his mother gave him at the docks. The fyora's body stilled soon after and he released it, stealing back the cloak. His arm had taken further injury from the creature's teeth as it bit and slashed to be free. The new wounds bled freely, leaving dark droplets on the sandy earth below. He glanced down at the punctures in his forearm, cursed the little beast, and tossed the cloak down. Torn apart and covered in fyora blood, it served no more purpose for him now.

His arm hurt more than ever.

This creature had not shown any submission towards him as a Shaper. A rogue, he thought. On a Shaper island long since abandoned, it seemed unlikely there would be anyone around to shape one, so it had to be a rogue. There must have been creations left when the Shapers retreated, and they had managed to breed. Generations without Shaper control could very well breed rogues, even if the original creations had been obedient. He expected there would be more, and his bleeding arm would attract them.

The new threat gave him purpose, and he decided he would continue heading east. If Shapers lived here once, there should be buildings. Shaping halls, containment facilities, quarantine, and perhaps even remnants of homes. There could be something here he could use for shelter, perhaps find some weapons and a means to bandage his arm.

He retrieved the necklace he had dropped in the scuffle with the fyora, and secured it in the doeskin pouch at his belt. The chain needed repair. He would fix it as soon as he had use of both hands again.

He followed the shoreline for a better part of the day, his progress slow and labored. He saw no further signs of wreckage or remains scattered around. He was glad to not find a body, but his stomach still felt heavy. He knew what happened to the other three. How could the drayk be rendered in pieces and the passengers aboard it not be? Perhaps the bodies had been so shattered they never made it to shore.

"Stop it," he scolded himself. If he allowed himself to dwell on that thought much longer he would vomit again. It was not a vision he wanted to entertain… ever.

On occasion he heard more rustling in the tree line, and the feeling of eyes watching him followed him but nothing ever emerged. He was glad for that.

Ahead he saw what he hoped to find… a Shaper building. Only an entrance stood visible, hidden behind trees and undergrowth but the giant stone pillars leading to a stone door. The building followed the typical style of Shaper architecture, simple and purposeful. Runes were etched over the entryway. Though he lacked proficiency in deciphering runes that his Shaper-bound classmates were certain to have, he recognized enough to take a guess. In the symbols he recognized the words "holding," and "passage." It sounded like quarantine.

Made sense.

Every new settlement built quarantine facilities near the main inlet. This prevented dangerous creatures from coming through unexpected, blocked entry of enemies to the Council, or those with diseases from contaminating a settlement. He had passed through a quarantine in the past, and underwent the thorough investigation by numerous creations. Each had a special purpose, some smelled, others tasted, yet others invaded the mind. The last had bothered him, he hated how exposed it made him feel, but in the end he was able to pass through. After so much time, he expected none of that to still be employable. Not many creations could withstand years of neglect.

He approached the door, locating the pressure switch on the wall to the right. He pushed it hard, expecting the mechanism that opened the door would not work after this much time. A small hiss as pressure released, dust kicked up, then with a rumble the stone door slid out of the way. Surprising.

Inside the building held no light. Shapers did not incorporate windows in their architecture often, and the lack of light meant he could see not more than a dozen feet in front of him. He stepped through, his footsteps sending up small billows of dust. He coughed on the first full breath of the stale air. A couple breaths later he was used to it. Ahead he could see the faint outline of a table.

Another hiss and the stone door slid closed leaving no light to see by.

"Aluminos!" he called out in a blind hope that there might still be functional light crystals inside. A faint glow appeared, just enough to see the outlines of where he walked. Given a moment for his eyes to adjust, he could make out the items that lay strewn about. Shapers were known for organization, but already he could see eating utensils scattered about the floor, unused candles on the table, floor, and a ways down the hall. Either the Shapers here left in a great hurry, or the place had been ransacked since. Not that it mattered. It had been awhile since any living being had been inside. Nothing had disrupted the thick layer of dust on any surface he spied. A recent visit would have been hard to miss.

The crystals gained intensity, and the light stretched further. He trudged down a hall, hoping to find a weapons cache or better yet, a medical ward. There could be pods that still held potency adequate for healing. Doubtful, but worth hoping for. As he traversed to a new wing, the light crystals faded and died, sensing they were no longer needed. Or, they tired out. "Aluminos," he commanded again. New crystals sprang to life, taking a minute or two before achieving full intensity.

In a well maintained facility, the crystals would sense his movement and illuminate prior to him arriving. These were old and tired. He was grateful they worked at all.

What would Margus have written in his journal about this place? He wondered without purpose how his brother might have sketched out the plain halls and unremarkable rooms.

"Rich with history," his brother would have written in the description. This was a Shaper facility. Didn't matter if nothing of value remained inside it, Margus would have found it interesting. "Devoid of life," was how Andras would have written it. At that moment he thought it would be great to have a journal to write things in. He would not be sailing home any time soon. Keeping a log of what he saw on the island might prove useful later on. Even if everything looked as lifeless as the quarantine facility, that would be something worth reporting.

If he found parchment and something to write with, he vowed to do just that. For now, his attention focused on more useful items. Room after room he found nothing he needed. Bowls, plates, spoons, knives. Nothing that would offer protection in the event he met more rogues. Nothing that could help his wounded arm. He found a book in one room, but it appeared to have fallen victim to moisture at some point, and had rotted to the point of being illegible. He tossed it aside.

Most rooms were holding cells and he expected them to be empty. A few had shackles still fastened to the floor. They would have contained rogue creations. The rest were simple stone rooms, no windows, no furniture. Holding cells for defiant seviles, or suspicious travelers. Decaying straw still remained in the corners of many. Those were the beds the captives would sleep on. Beds of serviles.

One holding cell contained a skeleton. He stumbled upon that unexpectedly, jerked back in surprise, and closed the door in haste. After regaining enough sense about him to look harder, he found it to be the skeleton of a roamer. The bones were clean of flesh and white, save for the dust that covered them. It had been dead awhile.

Good thing. He wasn't anxious to find one alive.

He found old sleeping quarters, probably for whoever had manned this station. The light crystal responded to his voice with a lazy glow. Dust coated everything inside, just as everywhere else in the building. This was the most promising room so far. He hadn't found any supplies he could use, but he needed rest, too. He shut the door behind him, dragging a wooden chair over to prop against it. The lock had been damaged and couldn't engage properly. If a rogue tried to search him out, he hoped the chair would hold it long enough to warn him.

Satisfied with the make-shift booby trap he had set at the door, he dropped himself on the mattress. A plume of dust kicked up and choked him. He waved it around with his hand as he coughed. Outside offered more appealing sleeping quarters than this, if he didn't fear the rogues that prowled the woods. Asleep with a bleeding wound, he would prove to be quick and easy prey. He wasn't ready for that just yet.

He laid back on the musty mattress. The smell of age assailed his senses, but he did his best to ignore it. The bag of dust would support him while he slept, assuming he could sleep. His body longed for the rest, but his mind couldn't promise any with thoughts of Carnelian still plaguing him. He hoped he was wrong, and somewhere somehow she still lived. Without a body to prove otherwise, he was free to imagine she survived and now looked for him even though he knew it wasn't likely.

He tucked his injured arm close to his body and, through the pain, managed to grab hold of short and troubled sleep.

Andras awoke to more pain than he fell asleep with. The injuries on his forearm hurt even more, and when he summoned the light crystal back to life he saw the hand became swollen while he slept. He sat up, unwrapping the material around his arm, wincing each time something pulled against the skin. His pulse beat steady from his shoulders all the way to his fingers. Once exposed, he examined the bite wound. The edges were puffy and red, and the blood that oozed out had the company of a purulent discharge. It smelled awful.

An infection. Just what he needed.

Fyora saliva was known to contain a weak toxin that could bring about infection and illness. A healthy Shaper had no cause for concern. Even without healing spells, the infection would clear in a few days and the wound would heal. Andras was anything but healthy. Battered, wounded, hungry, and thirsty he made a great candidate for something more serious. Perhaps serious enough his life would be in danger.

But the pain concerned him more than anything else. He could barely think now.

Carnelian, where are you?

Carnelian would know what herbs to use. She could make a salve or a poultice that would ease the pain and expedite the healing. She knew herbs well, and excelled in potion making. Alchemy would be her specialty when they arrived at Tayedikal. He was certain of that. She would be the best in her class.

If they arrived at Tayedikal. He didn't even know if she were still…

She is alive. He told himself that over and over again. He needed to believe it. She's alive somewhere, and perhaps she needed his help as much as he needed hers. If she encountered rogues on the island, she would have little in her arsenal except to flee and hide. Perhaps they held her cornered somewhere and he needed to find her.

The thought motivated him to move.

He rewrapped the arm, a little tighter hoping the pressure would reduce the swelling. He tried to remember the things Tanor taught him. Agents were not without their arsenal of quick tricks to use in situations like this, but his capacity for focused thought had diminished awhile ago. His throat longed for water, his stomach ached for food, and his head pounded to the same rhythm as in his arm.

With his good hand he removed the wooden barricade he set in front of the door and emerged in the dark hallway.

"Aluminos," he called forth the crystals once again. They answered him more quickly this time, and he started down the hall towards what he hoped would be an exit. He shivered. A strange thing to do when the air was still warm. He held his arms close to his body for warmth, finding that he couldn't stop the shivering. His teeth chattered, his body quivered. Chills. He had a fever.

Perfect. The infection progressed quicker than he expected.

He turned the corner two more times, passed more holding cells, then met up with another large stone door similar to the one he entered through. In a functional quarantine facility there would have been guards posted at this door, demanding documentation to show he had passed the first phase of the check-through. Nothing waited for him except the shadows, dust, and solitude. He searched for the pressure-switch to activate the door, finding it well hidden behind a narrow table with crumbling paper strewn over it.

He hurried over to push it, then stopped. Something looked off, different from what he expected in this old deserted place. He touched the papers, finding they didn't harbor the same coating of dust everything else did. His head turned as he stepped back, his eyes scanned for other signs something was amiss. It didn't take long to find what he failed to see before.

How he missed it before, he didn't know. Perhaps through the chattering teeth, throbbing headache, and pain in his arm his mind had too much to think about to notice subtle changes around him. Tanor would have been disappointed. An Agent should never miss something like that.

Leading to where he stood from the other hall was a trail disturbing the dust. Some places distinct foot prints were discernable, others looked like something had swept over the floor as they walked. Cloaks, perhaps, or… or a dress. A floor-length dress like the one Carnelian wore.

The thought uplifted his spirits, and he worked with renewed purpose. He gave the switch a hefty shove. It hissed, and with a rumble the door drew back. Daylight blinded him from the other side. It took a minute or so before he could tolerate the brightness without causing himself more pain. Once he could open his eyes without squinting or tearing up, he wandered outside into a grassy area with trees skirting the perimeter. There were more walls around to keep the area secure, but the coverage could encompass an impressive amount of land. He could not see where the walls ended, just the portion around him where they began.

There would be another check point soon, and his best guess was to head north. If that didn't yield anything he would try west. North seemed more sensible to try first.

The air outside proved to be colder than inside, and he shivered harder than before. His breath felt hot in the back of his throat, and his skin felt unusually sensitive everywhere signaling his fever's continued ascent. It had been years since he felt this ill, but he remembered in graphic detail how it affected him before; last time the fevers overtook his mind, causing him to hallucinate terrible visions and endure horrific nightmares. Vera suffered the same affliction with him; she was six at the time, and he eleven. Whether or not age affected the outcome, his fevers eventually broke, hers killed her.

A simple draught could have saved her life, but Kristoff had been too busy to make it.

Thoughts of Vera caused his jaw to tense and anger to brew within. Best to dismiss that for now. He focused ahead, reminding himself that Carnelian could be waiting for him not far from here. It was enough to get him moving once again.